Small-Town Hearts. Ruth Logan Herne

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      “Stupid biological clock?”

      “Exactly. As much fun as this all is—” Megan waved a hand around the white kitchen “—it’s not exactly what I’d planned for this stage in my life.”

      “Something that included a cute and loving husband, a couple of kids, a kitchen of your own and a cozy fire on long winter nights?”

      “Bingo. I’m not even close to anything like that, and I can’t help but wonder why. Is it me? Them? Are men different from what they were before?”

      “Umm. Asking the wrong girl. I’d kind of decided that was beyond the realm of possibilities before I moved here. Mostly I’m okay with that.”

      “Should I ask why?”

      “Probably not. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Something in Hannah’s tone, or maybe it was her bearing, made the words more poignant and less funny, but Megan refused to pry.

      “A need-to-know basis.” She nodded, laughing. “I get it. Obviously the witness protection program is using Jamison, New York, as a current venue.”

      Hannah tipped an amused look Megan’s way. “Yup. My real name is a state secret.”

      “Since I love the name Hannah, you may keep it a state secret.”

      “Does it bug you, Megan? To have been that close to marriage twice and have it fall apart?”

      Megan weighed her answer as she watched the toffee mixture darken and condense. “If by ‘bug’ you mean have my episodes of public humiliation turned me off members of the opposite sex for the duration of my natural life, I’d have to say that’s understandable, considering the circumstances.”

      “Michael was a jerk.”

      “I know. And so was Brad. But the turnaround of that is—why do I attract jerks? Am I so needy that I latch on to any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along?”

      “So if my name was Tom, Dick or Harry, you might give me a chance?”

      Megan stopped stirring the boiling toffee mix, mortified.

      Danny stood at the back door to the kitchen, looking way too amused and sure of himself for anyone’s good, particularly hers.

      “Eavesdropping is against the lease rules,” she said.

      He waved a careless hand to the open door. “You weren’t exactly quiet. I could hear you in the yard.”

      Hannah tried to mask a laugh, unsuccessfully. She shot him a look as she removed a tray of supersize cookies from the oven, set it down and replaced it with another. “He’s right. I forgot he was out there. Sorry.”

      Danny leaned his elbows against the metal brace separating the upper screen from the window below. “Back to my question…”

      “No.”

      “You’re sure? I could change my name.”

      “Listen, I’m working right now, and toffee has a mind of its own. As much as I’d love nothing better than to grow old sparring with you, the likelihood of that is zero. So if you’d be so kind as to maintain a proper landlord/tenant relationship at all times, we’ll both be better off.”

      “I get it.”

      He might have gotten it, but he didn’t look all that dissuaded. Great. Just her luck to have rented that apartment to someone who liked a challenge. Megan had no intention of challenging anyone, at least not anyone in the near future. Hadn’t Reverend Hannity talked about God’s plan just last week, the road less traveled, the unexpected twists, turns and inevitable forks along the way?

      Megan wasn’t sure where her road forked, but she was pretty certain that Danny Graham’s fork would zag left in about eight weeks, and she was determined to stand stalwart and solid for that time.

      She tested the toffee texture by dropping a tiny bit into a cup of cold water, fingered the texture to assess brittleness, then examined the threads dangling from the spoon. Her practiced eye told her this batch was done. She set it off the burner, maneuvered the handle left, hoisted the pan and gently poured a thin stream into the bar molds.

      “You don’t use a candy thermometer?”

      “No.”

      “Why?”

      “Unreliable.”

      “And that…maneuver, the thing with the water cup and the spoon, wasn’t?”

      “Not if you know what you’re doing.”

      Danny knew what he was doing. Always had. He’d been raised to make candy in a state-of-the-art facility that believed in small batches, but each batch was expertly measured and timed to assure the quality of the mix. Watching her, he had a vision of what his great-grandmother must have done on her porch outside Wellsville, the little house, long since gone, that had been the original home of Mary Sandoval’s Candies.

      Hannah moved along the cooling molds, sifting chopped nuts onto the surface, then using a wooden board to press them into the cooling toffee. An interesting thought crept into Danny’s head, of how cool it would be to do candy demonstrations like this at the tribute store, to show people the origins of his company, the skills required before automated machinery replaced the hands-on techniques he’d just witnessed. He stayed silent a moment, watching them work, then cleared his throat.

      “You’re still here.”

      “Watching and waiting.”

      She sighed, just enough to let him know she wanted him gone. “What?”

      “Do I need to call the electric company and have things put in my name?”

      “Oh.” She paused, chagrined, as if she’d been rude by ignoring him. Which she had, of sorts, but from what he’d over heard, she had good reason to shy away from men who appeared too good to be true. Although he had to seriously doubt the intelligence of the locals if they took one look at the incredibly delightful woman before him, her curly hair somewhat tamed in a crocheted hairnet, and her gold-plaid floor-length dress a nod of appreciation to simpler times. He almost felt the comfort of that when he was in her presence. Almost.

      She turned his way once the pot was empty, set it in a big, deep utility sink, turned on the hot water to melt the sugary coating and moved his way. “Sorry. I should have told you that. They’ll send the bill to me and I’ll pass it to you. For long-term leases I transfer it to the tenant’s name, but there’s no sense doing that for eight weeks. Is that all right?”

      “It’s fine.” She had a smear of milk chocolate along her lower cheek, and her apron bore similar traces of her work. The dress, from what he could see, appeared spotless. He waved in that direction. “Won’t you get that messed up back here? In the kitchen?”

      She nodded and shrugged. “Necessity. Women in the eighteen hundreds didn’t have the choice of wearing blue jeans and pullovers. They had to deal with all this, and when I wait on customers I like СКАЧАТЬ